by Karen George
Four mornings in a row, water aerobicizing
at the Y, I follow a small black bird rise, capsize
in the high pane of blue, one wing askew
in frantic thrash. I pummel limbs in water
deep, thick, unwieldy as my body and arthritis.
Day 5, the framed cerulean empty. I flail
in viscous waves of my own making, wonder
about buoyancy, currents, gravity. What resists &
plummets us, lifts & cradles us. The peril,
the wealth of hollow bones.
* * * * *
Karen George is author of poetry collections from Dos Madres Press: Swim Your Way Back (2014), A Map and One Year (2018), and forthcoming Where Wind Tastes Like Pears. Her work appears or is forthcoming in in Adirondack Review, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Sheila-Na-Gig Online, Mom Egg Review, Gyroscope Review, and I-70 Review. She reviews poetry at Poetry Matters: http://readwritepoetry.blogspot.com/. Her website is: https://karenlgeorge.blogspot.com/.